


The Prince of Hale

by princessgolux



Series: The Riddle-Master of Hale [1]
Category: Riddle-Master Trilogy - Patricia A. McKillip, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 14:00:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1713185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessgolux/pseuds/princessgolux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Prince of Hale won a riddle game.  He had no idea the prize that had been offered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prince of Hale

**Author's Note:**

> If you know the Riddle-Master of Hed, this scene is totally familiar. I just have been trying to get back into writing and the idea of Derek as Morgon of Hed and Stiles as Raederle the awesome shapeshifting princess...yeah. 
> 
> Short and sweet.
> 
> I own nothing - the plot is RMofH, the characters are TW. Some of he words are straight out of RM, some are actually mine. If you don't know, you should go and buy RMofH, because it rocks.

The myriad smells of the port assaulted him; dark, salty brine, tobacco and fish and the stench of bodies that had toiled too long under the early summer sun and had been without a proper bath for the duration.  Derek hitched his rucksack higher on his shoulder, glad again that they'd made shore as evening was falling.  The closing dark cut down on the number of people jostling for space and lifting their voices in a particular bustling and hawking song, variations of which could be heard in any port around the realm.  He made his way through the throng, nodding recognition at any he recognized from his voyage, but hurrying on to avoid attempts at familiarity.

 

“ _Keep it.” Deaton said. “The Sheriff of An would be the first to tell you it is yours by right.”_

 

_He tilted his head slightly, looking at Derek with a trace of a smile._

 

“ _So too, should you wish it, is the hand of Piękny of An.”_

 

 

Derek set his feet on the finer cobblestones that marked the beginning of the road to Caithnard. He let his body take him blindly forward, taking him back to the place he'd lived in for so long, the place he'd in which he'd studied and learned and shouted and wept. The rucksack grew heavier the closer he drew to his destination; digging into his shoulder and threatening to slip from his sweaty and shaking hands.

 

He could hear the burble of excited voices, so different and yet so similar to the cacophony at the port. Even in this exalted college, voices piling upon voices blurred the individual noises into a mass of sound. But down by the salty pier the sounds were everyday business – the shouting of sailors, the demanding of merchants, the pleading of beggars. Here there was excitement electric and bright, every student, journeyer, apprentace and master bubbling with impatience and curiosity.

 

“ _What?” Derek sat down, his knees wobbly underneath him._

 

“ _The Sheriff of An pledged his son's hand, the hand of the second most beautiful and second smartest person in An, to the person who could win Peven's crown.”_

 

“ _Piękny of An?”_

 

“ _Yes.”_

 

“ _ **Stiles**?”_

 

“ _Yes.”_

 

“ _That was...monumentally stupid.” Derek said. “How could he...it was a **riddle-game**! Anybody could have won! How could the Sheriff pledge Stiles to just anybody?”_

 

“ _Just anybody didn't win.” Deaton said. “You did.”_

 

Derek could hear snatches of conversation wafting by as he wended his way up the main road that lead to the sleeping quarters at the left of the college proper.

 

“...What was the riddle?...

 

“What will the Sheriff do?”

 

“Who was it?”

 

Derek stopped, not drawing closer to his final destination. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, gathering himself to push past the paralysis that gripped him, here within meters of his goal.

 

He became aware of one particular voice in the evening din, twining and grappling with the general baying around him. The volume increase as he stood listening, the surrounding voices immediately rising in challenge. He turned in time to see a tankard fly out of a tavern window as the sounds broke like a storm-fuelled wave and the shadows inside began to lurch and grapple.

 

Derek sighed, weighing his options. He could simply go to Scott's room and wait, but from the sound of it, Scott wasn't planning on going anywhere but jail tonight. And Derek had wasted months, hiding the crown under his bed and not telling anyone about it.

 

And all that time Piękny of An waited, imagining the worst.

 

 _Stiles_ waited.

 

Not knowing who would appear to claim him.

 

Waiting any longer wasn't fair to Stiles.

 

_I'm so sorry, Stiles. I didn't know._

 

Derek pushed into the tavern ducking and twisting to avoid people and objects hurling in his direction. All around the brawl was growing, pulling in even those recalcitrant patrons on the edges, hoping to finish the beer they paid for before they ran. In the middle was Scott, eyes flashing color enough to match his robe of Journeyman red. He punched and sliced with both fist and claw, indiscriminate, snarling and swearing with a drunks' expanded vocabulary.

 

Derek weaved his way through the crowd and shifted his grip to hold the rucksack with one hand. With the other he reached through the melee and grasped the back of Scott's robe. He pulled and let go, taking the reflexive slash across his face that laid one cheek open but getting his hand back up to catch the fist that followed before it could smash his nose.

 

Scott blinked. “Derek.” He swayed, snatching a tankard out of the hand of someone hefting it to throw. “What are you doing here?” he said and drank deeply.

 

“I need to talk to you.”

 

“Talking is overrated.” Scott chucked the tankard behind him without looking and pushed forward, not looking to see if Derek followed. “We talked a lot before. And Stiles is still bound to some...” He punched a wall, growling.

 

Derek waited.

 

“Whatever.” Scott said, moving forward again. “You can help me pack.”

 

“Pack?” Derek said.

 

“I'm going home to be with Stiles.” Scott said, determined and furious. “I'm going to go and sit with my sword and my claws and I'm going to fucking disembowel whoever shows up and tries to put their dirty hands on my brother.”

 

He slammed into his room, door obviously unlocked, and strode to his bed. A traveling pack half stuffed sat on the bed and clothes were strewn about the place. Derek closed the door softly and locked it.

 

“Scott. I know you're upset...”

 

“Upset?” Scott said, voice tight with rage. “I have been trying to get my father and the masters here to let me go home since we got word that Peven's crown had been won.” He kicked a chair and began swiping clothes from various surfaces and shoving them into his bag.

 

“Scott...”

 

“I decided tonight that I would just go, fuck them all. But I got so mad I had to get out before I fully changed; before I just put my wolf on and ran and bit and tore...”

 

“Scott, this is important...”

 

“It was supposed to be you!” Scott roared. “You were supposed to win! And now we have no fucking clue who has Peven's crown, who won the game, who is going to marry Stiles!”

 

“I need to know, Scott.” Derek said, twisting the top of his rucksack nervously. “Do you think Stiles will mind being a farmer?”

 

Scott snorted. “He's the second most beautiful person in An. And the second smartest. Of course he can't be a farmer.”

 

Derek dropped his eyes.

 

“Wait.” Scott said, blinking.

 

His rage and alcohol soaked brain seemed to catch up to the question.

 

“What?”

 

Derek's hands stilled on the thick cloth of his pack. He very carefully didn't move.

 

“Derek.” Scott said, staring at him. “Who won Peven's riddle-game?” He took a step closer. “Who took Peven's crown and won the hand of my brother?”

 

Derek raised his eyes to meet Scott's and held out the sack.

 

“I did.”

 

Scott threw his head back and Shouted. A thick glass stein on the mantle broke with the force of his shout, and the rucksack in Derek's hands split, disgorging a golden crown, covered in jewels and dust.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Just in case the potential vague non-con feeling of the who 'pledging the hand' thing is squicky...in the book Raederle's father has a hint of prophetic sight. So it's more like he doesn't know who exactly she's going to marry, he just knows that it will be the dude who wins the riddle game at Aum and gets Peven's ccrown. He knows it won't be just anybody, he just can't see clearly who it is.


End file.
